


catalog choice

by fyborg23



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: A/B/O verse, M/M, Mail Order Bride, Smut, underage in some jurisdictions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 02:42:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3192257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyborg23/pseuds/fyborg23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shea bites the inside of his cheek and nods, opening up the catalog with clumsy fingers. There are so many smiling faces, so many <i>likes walking by the beach in the moonlight, gourmet cook, good with kids </i> that they all blur into each other. He keeps flipping, not even looking at the words and glancing at the faces but then—</p>
            </blockquote>





	catalog choice

**Author's Note:**

> Once, an anon asked: _could you imagine mail order husband roman/shea like in an A/B/O universe where its like a law that alphas have to be married by the time they turn 25 or something as a way to "settle" them. And so so Shea basically decides to mail order a husband and he get Roman and he's just so enamored and confused by roman but s in love with him. but he thinks roman only married him cause the money but roman really fucking cares for shea and basically pining and dumb men in love_
> 
> And then it went on to eat my brain for about 12k of words. Posting here for archiving purposes. 
> 
> All credit goes to my readers, especially suttertron, hawkwardly and bigneonglitter, and all blame goes to me. Underage warning is for Josi being seventeen for most of the collection of ficlets, but better safe than sorry.

## 1\. impulse purchase

Poile heaves a thick catalog in front of Shea, and Shea looks up at him. Poile looks back down, his face decidedly unimpressed.

“Before you leave the room, you will order a bride.”

Shea frowns, tries, “But I’m only 21, do I need to be married right now?”

Poile doesn’t cross his arms, but Shea still gets the impression anyway, and Poile says, “Never put off what you can do today. Besides it’s been.  _Communicated_  to me that seeing you settled would. Make the Alpha question easier.”

Shea blanches; it took him two years in the Admirals before the front office was comfortable having an Alpha on the Predators, and now he has to get married?

Shea would roll his eyes and mutter, but even he knows not to offend the General Manager of his team. Shea bites the inside of his cheek and nods, opening up the catalog with clumsy fingers. There are so many smiling faces, so many  _likes walking by the beach in the moonlight_ ,  _gourmet cook_ ,  _good with kids_  that they all blur into each other. He keeps flipping, not even looking at the words and glancing at the faces but then—

His eyes fall on  _likes hockey_ , and he drags his eyes up to a face that could be in a geometry lesson, sharp cheekbones and a firm chin, smiling wide enough to show a small gap in his lower teeth. The guy’s got long fingers wrapped around a hockey stick, and there’s a flush on his face that Shea’s familiar with from physical exertion and cold.

Shea doesn’t bother reading further, just dashes down #90rj on the mail order form and his own address.

He puts the whole meeting out of his mind, he picked someone and Poile seemed happy enough when Shea got out there in 10 minutes. Shea has to work on his slapshot anyways.

So Shea’s not expecting a guy to be stretched out on his couch two weeks later, with two large suitcases stacked neatly at the end of the foyer. Shea’s hackles are up, and he shouts “Who are you!”

The guy flies up, his eyes blinking open as he takes in Shea— and Shea puffs up as much as he can— and says, “Roman Josi, bride?”

Shea pauses, vaguely remembering that  _yes_  he did order an omega bride, even wrote down his own address, and mutters, “How did you get in.”

Roman turns his hand like he’s turning a lock, a  _seriously, really_  look on his face. Shea can feel himself turning red, and turns his attention to dropping his gear into a corner of the foyer. He should air out the bag, but there’s a strange, too-good-looking omega dude in his house that may not speak English.

Which. Shea’s no Don Cherry but it’d be nice to know what they can work with.

“How much English can you speak?” Shea says.

Roman flicks his eyes up, probably trying to find the words and Shea’s gut clenches with nerves. Roman waves his hand in a see-saw motion, “Erm, not best in school.”

Shea looks up skyward. Damn it. He scrubs his hand through his hair and sighs. Then he blinks, steps closer and takes in Roman’s smooth face. It’s too smooth for him to even be—

He steps back quickly, feeling like cops will burst in at the door and arrest him just for being this close. Shea licks his lips, tries to calm down his throttling heart and says, “How old are you?”

Roman flushes, pink across his cheekbones and temples, and Shea has the fleeting guilty thought that he looks  _cute_ that becomes even guiltier when Roman says, “Seventeen.”

Shea’s eyes may bug out a little bit, what kind of sketchy agency is this, sending teenagers to marry men?

“I’m legal in Switzerland!” Roman says, stumbling a little over the word  _legal_  and Shea looks at the wall and thinks about putting his head through it.

Shea rubs at his temples and says as slowly as he can manage, “Look, you’re a very nice kid, but you’re not old enough.”

Roman rolls his eyes and says, “You see my picture, and the little things about me on it? Then you knew—”

Shea shakes his head, and Roman’s lips curl up as he buffs his nails on— what in the hell is that t-shirt— “You think I’m  _hot_ , you want the sex! So what is problem, you order me, I’m here.”

The thought of sliding into Roman, hot and slick, with those hands clawing on his shoulders comes unbidden and unwanted to Shea’s mind, and Shea turns on his heel and stomps towards the kitchen. He drains a glass of water, Roman watching his every move, and Shea glares at him.

Roman doesn’t quail.

He stares back at Shea, and Shea bites his lips. He could like this kid— and that’s the problem, standing right there in his kitchen staring at each other like a bad Western and waiting for the other one to move first.

“You not fuck me,” Roman says, a slow grin curling up his mouth, like he’s never had to  _ask_  for sex, “Where do I sleep?”

Shea licks at his lips— man are they dry— and shows Roman the guest room. Or what passes for one, since there’s a narrow bed and a wide desk piled with important papers that Shea keeps meaning to file and never does. Roman sweeps his eyes over the mess, looks at the bed, and scoffs. Says a few things in what sounds like German that probably insults Shea’s mother and intelligence, and turns around.

“No. No,” Roman says, his eyes hard, and Shea can smell him this close. He smells good, like any omega does, and Shea closes his eyes against Roman and his  _everything_.

He steps back, and looks at the blank wall in the hallway as he says, “Ok, you can sleep in my room.”

Roman hums, and Shea hopes Roman knows the English for pajamas.

 

## 2\. die Glut

Roman comes down for breakfast later than usual, looking pink and tired. He stumbles across the tiled floor, and Shea can just smell  _cinnamon_  coming off him, like he rolled around in it, ate it, sweats it. Shea stands up so quickly his chair falls to the floor with a hard  _thump_. Roman looks in his direction, his eyelids heavy, and his eyes a shade of green that makes Shea’s stomach lurch.

Shea clutches at Roman, keeping him from slipping against the kitchen counter, and Roman just breathes in his direction, his hands skimming above Shea’s shorts. Shea looks at Roman, of course he’s in heat, of course, just when Shea’s a frazzled mass of frustration of losing and road trips and inappropriate sexual tension.

Roman licks at his lips, presses his hands in under the elastic of Shea’s shorts, and Roman smells too good to be this close. Shea steps back, and Roman steps forward, nuzzling into Shea’s neck. Shea can feel Roman’s barely-there stubble press into his neck, and  _shit_ , Roman’s grinding against him.

Shea pulls Roman’s face away by his hair, and realizes his fuck-up when Roman looks up at him like Shea’s hand belongs  _there_.

He bites the inside of his lip, trying to think beyond how warm and  _real_  Roman is against him, and tries, “You need to go back to bed.”

All he gets back in return is Swiss German, Roman’s lips squeezing around the words like he’s fucking them, and Shea gets the general sense that getting out of bed was the biggest mistake they both made today. Shea wrestles Roman too easily back to  _their_  room, and Shea pushes him down onto  _their_  bed. Roman arches up against the sheets, rubbing himself off through his sweats, and Shea can see how wet Roman is, dark grey against the light grey material. Roman licks his lips, bares his neck and—

Shea marches out of there, slams the door, wrestles himself into a coat and stalks into a CVS, going up and down the aisles looking for  _something, anything_. There are nice people who float around him, but they melt away when they meet his eyes, and Shea sees AISLE 6: OMEGA HYGIENE. There’s dildos, lined up and down one side of the aisle in clear boxes, in various colors and sizes and shapes and it’s just a hazed blur. Shea grabs one, gets a family-sized lube (and why in the fuck call lube tubes family-size) and pays for it and charges home.

He takes the stairs three at a time, heaves himself up, and slings the CVS bag into their room like it’s one last defense Shea has, and Shea closes the door. He slumps down the smooth wood, pressing his back against it as he listens to his heart pound in his ears and presses his hands against his thighs. Shea’s known, in that abstract sense one has when learning biological facts in class, that alphas’ senses are heightened when they’re near omegas in heat, that the sensory overload makes alphas a little unstable, but it’s never been.  _Real_ , like it is now, listening to Roman roll over to the bag, rustle through the plastic, tear open the dildo, curse at the plastic, and _shove_  it inside himself.

Shea doesn’t know whether Roman’s on his knees, his ass arching up into the air, or on his back, his legs spread, thighs glistening with heat and precome. Shea knows that Roman’s fucking himself hard, jerking himself  _not_  raw, because he can hear the  _squelch_  of the lube in Roman’s ass and hand. He presses his face against the door, closes his eyes, and Roman  _moans_.

Roman thumps his heels against the sheets, moves, and fucks himself again, and Shea can  _taste_  the frustration. Shea hears Roman mutter to himself, disjointed words about how he needs more, and Shea licks at his lips. He can’t give him more, not like this, not when Roman is boiling with heat, smelling like he’d be so delicious if Shea put his mouth on Roman’s ass.

“Shea,” Roman cries out, “Help me,” and Shea doesn’t think, jerks up and pushes into their room, and  _fuck_. Roman’s spread out in the middle of their bed, naked, his dick a shade of red that makes his own wince in sympathy and makes his mouth water. Roman pushes the dildo back in, gritting his teeth, and Shea flushes. It’s—

Shea didn’t intend—

It’s the size of his own dick, and Shea’s too turned on to be embarrassed to see how Roman thrashes around it. Shea says, “How? Can I help?”

Roman squirms, and shit, that wet spot is massive. He pants, “Fingers, fingers, please.”

Shea smears a squirt of lube in between his fingers, he doesn’t want to hurt Roman, doesn’t want Roman to cry and shudder anymore than he has. He presses two in, and Roman just gives this little  _sigh_ , something like a smile on his face. Roman presses down hungrily, fucks himself on them like they’re better than the dildo Shea got him. Shea stares at Roman’s closed eyes, the sweat trickling down Roman’s neck to his collarbone. And curls his fingers up.

Roman comes with a startled gasp, bucking against Shea’s fingers so hard that Shea has to press Roman down with his other hand to keep Roman from breaking them. Roman whimpers, and Shea thrusts his hand carefully, ignoring Roman’s heat-slick thighs, until Roman comes  _again_.

Roman blinks his eyes open, and Shea pulls his fingers out, backs away like he’s been burned. Manages to say, “Take a shower, I’ll change the sheets—”

Roman curls up, and Shea keeps his eyes on the dusty curtains and not on Roman’s spent dick lying against his hip.

“ _Gut_ ,” Roman hums, strolling towards the ensuite bathroom after patting Shea on the shoulder, like Shea just did him a  _favor_. Shea turns away, looks at the sodden sheets, and scrubs his cleaner hand over his face. He still can smell Roman, knows what Roman looks like after—

He’s been well fucked

## 3\. nackten

Shea’s sharpening his skates when Pekka comes in. He closes the door, and then waits for Shea to finish his skates.

Pekka wants to talk.

Shea makes sure to take as long with his skates as possible, but he turns off the sharpener a lot sooner than he’d prefer.

“Roman’s a nice guy,” Pekka opens, and Shea nods. Not that he dares to do anything else, not with people half-relieved that Shea’s not an unattached Alpha and half-nervous that he’d be possessive over Roman. Shea knows Pekka, maybe  _trusts_  him, but he’s not going to bare his throat when he doesn’t need to.

Pekka raises his eyebrows, “Don’t want to add anything else?”

The look Shea gives him is pretty much enough to make Pekka laugh, “Ok, fine. But you don’t smell like him. And he doesn’t smell like you.”

“He’s  _seventeen_ ,” Shea says.

Pekka looks down and flicks off an imaginary lint, says, “I remember when  _I_  was seventeen. And I’m a Beta. You’re not telling me he hasn’t?”

“Hasn’t what,” Shea says flatly.

Pekka rolls his eyes and says, “You two are married, you should be smelling like each other. I suggest you fix that as soon as possible.”

Shea watches Pekka walks out of the room, and resists the urge to throw a wrench at the wall. Pekka’s  _right_ , that’s what Shea likes and dislikes about him. Fuck.

But how in the hell is Shea supposed to say to Roman, “Come on me and—”

He can’t even manage to finish the last half of the question in his  _own_  head. Shea endures practice, drives home with Roman. Roman presses close against Shea as he hoists his own bag out of the car, and Shea can barely control himself being this close to Roman, how could he control himself when Roman’s naked and jerking off on him?

Or when Shea jerks off on Roman and smears his come over Roman’s chest, maybe feed him some—

Shea shakes his head firmly, and closes the trunk.

Roman plops pre-made sandwiches on the counter, and as Shea’s ripping off the plastic on his own, Roman says, “We need to smell like each other.”

Sha flicks his eyes up to Roman, feeling like Roman’s way ahead of him on the play, reading high when Shea’s reading low. Roman strips the saran wrap off his sandwich and adds, “People actually ask  _me_  why you aren’t fucking me every chance you get. Which is a  _very_  good question.”

Roman smirks, and Shea’s hands clench on the bread, “Look, you can come on me, if that’s a problem.”

“You have to come on me too, Shea,” Roman says, and shit, Shea doesn’t need even more things to jerk off at night in the shower, before he slips into  _their_  bed. Roman takes in Shea, sweeping his eyes carefully over his face, and Shea can see the wheels turn in that handsome head of his.

Shea hears Roman say what he’s figured out is Swiss German for fuck, and something warms in him at hearing Roman say it. Roman stands up, pushes aside the sandwiches and says, carefully, “What do you want.”

Heat prickles Shea’s face, and he doesn’t trust himself to say anything. Roman licks his lips, and they’re a lot closer than they usually are. Roman has lovely eyes, a hazel green, and they’re almost of a height that Shea could incline his head just right to suck on those lips.

Shea steps back, looks outside the window, and says, “Look, the sooner we do this, the sooner we’re done.” He turns towards their bedroom quickly, if not quickly enough to see the flash of hurt and anger and wounded pride in Roman’s eyes. Shea pulls off his shirt violently, firmly telling himself that this is better than actually hurting Roman’s feelings.

Roman steps into their room, half naked, and Shea already knows how Roman’s arms curve, how much space he takes up. But Shea still looks, still commits it to memory, and Roman looks back, boldy. Shea’s the stereotypical hairy Alpha, but it doesn’t seem to deter Roman.

Roman pushes down his pants, kick them off, and reaches to push down Shea’s. He pushes them down even before Shea can snap out of looking at Roman’s hands on his waistband, and then Roman is in his space again.

“We should be closer,” Roman says. Like it’s so reasonable, so understandable—

The trouble is, Shea’s in perfect agreement.

Shea urges Roman on their bed. Roman sprawls out like he wants Shea in between his legs, and Shea places a knee on the bed. He peels off Roman’s underwear, Roman arching his hips up enough to help Shea.

“Fuck,” Shea whispers. Roman’s dick is pressed against his hip, curving to the right, flushed purple, and he wants so badly to touch it and see how Roman would moan. Roman flushes, and reaches for Shea’s underwear. Shea lets him, and he can see Roman  _touch_  all over his dick with a look, and Shea feels himself getting thicker just from Roman _looking_  at him. Roman flicks his eyes up at him.

Shea wants so badly to touch Roman, to know how he’d fill his mouth and his hand— but instead he takes himself in hand and strokes once. To take the edge off, because he can see Roman smearing precome all over his stomach and Shea wants to suck it off.

Shea wants  _everything_ , and Roman knows it. He even reaches for Shea, and pulls on him until Shea’s on top of him, their dicks sliding together in what must be agnoy for Roman.

He rocks his hips, slides against Roman’s smooth skin, and Roman arches his back, shows his pale throat. Shea’s teeth itches to bite him, his hands itches to hold him down and rut against him until Roman comes clutching at him. Roman slides his hand over the small of Shea’s back, smoothes down his spine, and says, “You’re shaking.”

“It’s. A lot,” Shea manages, and Roman rocks against him, smearing his precome against Shea’s treasure trail.

“Please,” Roman says—  _begs_ — and Shea moans, presses against him in a dirty grind and  _gives in_. Roman’s rocking against him, touching him everywhere he can, tangling his fingers into Shea’s chest hair and muffling his noises with Shea’s shoulders. Shea inches a hand down, carefully, and strokes them off—

Roman shouts, “ _Ja_ ,” and comes—

Shea looks down at both of them together in his hand, and comes, pressing his face against Roman’s shoulder. Roman licks his lips, looking dazed, and smears their mingled come all over himself, presses it against Shea’s abs. Shea stiffens, and Roman grinds against him, pressing against Shea’s spent dick.

Shea suppresses a wince, and Roman licks his fingers clean, and looks up at him. He says, “Give me ten minutes, and I’ll come on you again.”

That’s another wince he has to suppress, and he can feel Roman smirking against his arm.

## 4\. diagnosis

Roman snores. Shea’s past turning over at the droning noise in his ear, but when it’s like this:

_butzzzzz butzzzzzz_

Shea wants to shove pillows over both of their heads. He nudges Roman, hoping to get him to sleep on his side for once. Roman grunts, and slides even closer, plastering himself against Shea. Shea’s hot, and having Roman plastered against his side makes his throat dry because Roman’s a  _furnace_ , one with limbs. That are wrapped around Shea’s legs.

It takes some fervent twisting and turning to peel off his shirt, and even with the blanket down past his hips and his sweat chilling on his skin, Shea’s still burning up. He wants water so badly it’s almost painful. He slips past Roman’s hold, pushes into the en suite bathroom, and drinks straight from the faucet. The water’s not cold enough, tastes more metallic than it should, and Shea yanks his head from the sink. He feels dumb for being annoyed at a  _sink_  and he feels annoyed for being dumb.

He turns his head towards the door when Roman edges in, looking tired and rumpled in a too-large shirt that’s definitely Shea’s.

“ _Ist drei_ ,” Roman says, frowning at Shea in the slightly greenish light plugged into the outlet by the door. Shea’s too tired, too hot to try and use what German he picked up from Rosetta Stone, and just waves in Roman’s direction.

“Sleep,” Shea says, “I’m—  _fine_.”

Roman scoffs and flicks on the main light, making Shea flinch and cover his face with his hand. Jeez, warn a guy. Roman opens his mouth, and then closes it, steps closer. He presses a hand against Shea’s shoulder, and Shea almost makes another sink in the countertop with how hard he’s clenching it.

“You have  _die Glut_ , Shea,” Roman says, “You are not fine—”

Shea laughs breathlessly, “I’m just hot, I need a shower, I  _stink_.”

Roman looks upwards, a stream of Swiss German that probably mocks Shea, not that he especially cares. Shea stretches out, pushes down his boxers, and kicks them across the bathroom. Roman arches an eyebrow, and his eyes drift a little before he jerks them up and looks at Shea in the face.

“Need, ehhh, der  _Play_?” Roman asks, and Shea could kick himself for not hiding those magazines better, and no, he does not. He is just fine, just too hot and itchy, and if Roman could leave and let him take a shower that would be really great.

Roman smirks at him, and Shea realizes two things. One, Roman has really red lips that he’d really like to suck on, and two, he said all of that shit out loud. Shea watches Roman bite his lip, and think about what to say to Shea next. He leans against the cool counter, the stone chill almost enough as he watches Roman translate what he’s thinking into English in his mind.

“Ok,” Roman says slowly, walking in an arc from Shea to the bathroom door, “What you need is to get off. Maybe more than once. Need anything? Well—”

Roman blushes, and Shea watches, fascinated by the glow of pink in his face. He pushes himself to continue, and Shea’s hanging onto every word that comes out of Roman’s pretty mouth, with that lip that he really would like to touch.

“Look, you look at me like that is really fucking hot, but uh. You’d be all weird if you fuck me like this. Even though I want it and I practice with that dumb thing you got me—” Roman moves his hands in a pushing motion, “But it’s not about me. It’s you, and I know you don’t touch yourself this week.”

That blush turns into a deep red, and Shea licks his lips. Roman looks straight at him, “You are really loud, so. Not stalking you.”

Shea grins. Roman usually plays it a lot better than Shea ever did at  _seventeen_ , but maybe that’s just Shea. He runs a hand up and down his chest, and Roman watches Shea move his hand down to his dick. Shea cups himself, cants his hips up a little.

“Not stalking me,” Shea says, rubbing his palm across the base of his dick, “So it’s not stalking if I want you to watch me knot?”

It wouldn’t take much; Shea feels like his blood’s about to boil, and having Roman look at him like he does  _want_  to watch Shea’s dick swell, wants to watch Shea rub over his knot and squeeze it until he comes all over himself, makes that just a little better.

Roman mutters something that Shea thinks is  _fuck me_ , and Shea says, “I wish I could but I’m not supposed to—”

He throws his head back, presses up into his hand, and Roman just looks at him like he can’t look away. Shea strokes, thumbs the very tip of his dick in that way that makes him feel shivery, too much of a good thing, and he doesn’t look away from Roman. He can smell Roman, how slick and hard he’s getting, and it’s a  _goad_ , it’s a  _prod_. Shea licks again at his dry lips, strips his dick on the verge of raw and—

“Shit,” Roman breathes appreciatively, and Shea grins, rubbing his fingertips over his knot. It’s pressure— really good pressure, like he’s just on the edge of coming. Shea presses his dick back against his belly, and his foreskin feels fantastic rubbing against the base of his knot. He looks over at Roman, and Roman’s plastered against the opposite wall, dazed with lust. Shea presses on his knot a little, not too much. He doesn’t want to come yet, not before Roman does.

“Please,” Shea says, and Roman presses his hands against the wall.

Roman’s saying stuff to him that could be German, could be English, and Shea wants Roman to push down his underwear and stroke himself off like he needs to. Shea needs it, needs Roman to touch himself like he wants to—

“Touch yourself, babe,” Shea says, gritting his teeth as he presses down against his hands, feeling heavy with the knot. Roman moans almost painfully, and Shea gasps as he watches Roman jerk his own slick dick, fast and not at all nice.

Roman comes, gets it mostly on himself and Shea wanted that come on his own skin, wanted Roman to arch those hips over him—

Shea strokes, squeezes around the knot just like he does every time he goes into heat, and he arches up, toes curling, throat raw—

Coming is like a punch  _everywhere_ , and Shea can barely move his hand enough to make his knot come down with him. He looks down at himself, streaks of thin white on his skin, and Roman moves before he can slip on the floor. Shea’s heavy, but Roman doesn’t sway much

Roman says into his ear, stroking his hair, “Let’s get you into a shower, you need it,” and Shea tries not to like the way those words come out of that mouth too much.

## 5\. crack

Shea turns at the feel of a hand on the back of his neck, and he looks down at Sutes and grins. Sutes smiles back in greeting, and nods towards Roman ribbing Ellis over his hair.

“He’s fitting in fine,” Sutes says. Shea raises his eyebrow. It’s not like Shea tries to seek Sutes’ opinion these days, but Sutes’ still into mother-henning Shea as much as he was when Shea had one foot up in Milwaukee and another foot down in Nashville.

Shea says something bland, and steps away from Sutes so he can get more of this punch before anyone spikes it with something godawful. Sutes doesn’t get the hint, still sticks with him, and grabs most of the punch for himself before Shea can fill his own glass.

Sutes presses, “Look, you gotta tell me, are you, you know?” he moves his hands like he’s looking for something, “The kid.”

Shea takes the moment to chug the punch so he won’t have to answer that question. Why is everyone obsessed with where his dick goes? He’s married— albeit to Roman— but he’s not going to screw  _that_  up either.

“Why do you want to know,” Shea says, chucking the paper cup into the overflowing kitchen trash can.

Sutes licks his lips— and Shea’s unfairly reminded of  _that_  time in the showers, after Shea got his first NHL point, how water beaded up on Sutes’ eyelashes before he leaned in—

He quirks a corner of his mouth at Shea, “A good-looking kid like him, who’s as hard-working as you are? You’ve got a soft spot a mile wide for d-men. Please tell me you’re making him happy by doing it.”

If he and Sutes weren’t friends, weren’t so good at reading each other on the ice, Shea would boot him into orbit. As it is, Sutes’ being.  _Invasive_. He looks down at Sutes, willing him to read his mind and fuck the right off this topic.

Sutes just stares back.

Glass bottles clatter on the floor, and they both turn at the sound. Shea sees Roman muttering to himself, and bends down to take Roman’s hands away from the broken glass before he does something stupid and cuts himself. Roman yanks his hands away from Shea’s grip like it’s offensive to him, and glares at Sutes, “Don’t just stand there, get me towels.”

Sutes turns away, and Roman shoots Shea a glare that makes Shea tingle from the venom in it. Roman yanks the towels from Sutes’ hand, and rebuffs Sutes’ offer to help with a  _no I can handle this_  wave of his hand.

Shea mouths, “you better leave” and Sutes does what he’s told for once.

Roman glares at the green shards, picking them up so hard Shea thinks he may have cut himself at least once. Shea helps, pushing the dustpan around until the glass piles up. Roman goes to push the glass onto the dustpan but he beats him to it.

Shea gets up, and hears Roman say something in Swiss German, and he only catches the word for “shit”. He tenses up as he pulls up the plastic bag to take the trash out, and tenses up even more when he sees Roman sucking at a cut on his hand.

“I’m fine,” Roman says, his voice flat and harsh, “Take out the trash.” Shea makes himself turn away from the thin weal of blood on Roman’s skin, and walk down the short stoop into the night. He pries open the garbage can lid, shoves the bag in, and slams the lid back on.

Slamming garbage can lids loses effectiveness when they’re plastic instead of metal, but it’s the  _principle_  of the thing. Shea looks back towards the door, and goes to it as slowly as he can bear. Shea’s the one who gets pissed off, and Roman usually laughs and prods him out of his pissiness, but when  _Roman_  gets pissed?

Shea’s not scared. No. He’s.  _concerned_. He takes a deep breath and opens the door, seeing Roman rinse his cut in the kitchen sink. Shea steps closer, and Roman jerks his head up. He licks his lips, and Roman just glares back at him, his eyes a shade of green that makes Shea’s back prickle.

“How’s the cut?” Shea asks. Roman scoffs, and shrugs. Shea’ll take that to mean  _I’ll live_. He steps closer to Roman, and takes Roman’s hand in his, looking at the scrape.

Roman doesn’t move his hand away from Shea’s hold, and Shea lets himself rub his thumb carefully on the skin around the cut. Doesn’t need sitches, but the location’ll be annoying as hell, being on the web of skin between his finger and thumb.

Shea looks away from Roman’s hand and at his face, and Shea’s eyes drift on Roman sucking in his lower lip before he remembers to say, “You seemed mad. Why?”

Roman’s eyes flare, and he clenches his jaw. He looks away from Shea, talking to one of those dumb cat clocks on the wall, “Do you and Suter fuck.”

Shea laughs, and realizes that was pretty stupid to do when there’s an angry teen married to him demanding to know whether his dick wanders or not— and forces himself to spell it out, “ _Used_  to. But Sutes was just being nosy and wanting to know whether I—” he swallows, “fuck you.”

Roman steps closer, his chest brushing against Shea’s, and smirks cruelly, “Well, we know whose fault that is.”

Shea grips Roman’s hand convulsively, and Roman slides his lips along Shea’s neck, adds something else in German that Shea’s going to look up later, because Shea distrusts the hungry glow Roman has when he steps back. Shea can feel the imprint of Roman’s mouth on his neck, presses his hand against it, and Roman just looks  _at_  him.

Shea licks his lips again, and Roman looks like he realizes something very amusing. Shea’d love to be in on the joke, but he suspects he knows what the joke is:

He wants to fuck Roman, knot him until he doesn’t want anything else.

## 6\. dramaturgy

There’s a routine that they have when they’re home. Shea wakes up, grumps himself into running while Roman dozes and lazes about. Then Shea comes home to a bed that’s made perfectly and ignores the lingering smell of Roman’s wetness and come. He  _knows_  Roman jerks off when he’s out running, knows he does it in their bed on purpose. Shea can  _still_ smell it, can figure out how Roman got off each day.

It’s maddening, but what’s even more maddening that Shea doesn’t take a cold shower. Even though he should, Shea just. Doesn’t. It’s the only time every day Shea knows is  _his_ , and what he does and think on his own time is for himself.

Like thinking about the way his fingers slid into Roman when Roman had his heat, and how he just pressed up and dragged them to make Roman come. Or thinking about playing with his knot in front of Roman, getting Roman so hot and keyed up Roman jerked himself in front of him. Or rubbing off against Roman every now and then, making sure they smelled like each other, as they  _should_. The guilt pricks him, sweet and nasty, but Shea keeps coming back to those thoughts until they’re worn around the edges.

Even when they’re worn around the edges, Shea still runs his hand over his dick thinking about it.

He slips into the shower, standing off to the side to avoid the blast of cold water, and thinks idly about what’d happen if Shea cut his run short one of those days, went back to see Roman jerking himself off, maybe even knocking his hand off his dick and blowing him. Shea hasn’t blown anyone in  _ages_ , misses the heavy feel of cock in his mouth.

Roman could fuck his mouth, make Shea strain his ears to hear his smothered moans.

Shea presses himself against the tile, slides his hand up his thigh, pinches it a little before he palms himself. Roman smells good, smells a little better than he should today. They don’t talk about their heats, but Shea knows it’s been a while. He can convince himself that Roman smells more like cinnamon than he does, press his hand against Roman’s neck and feel him relax under his hand. He could rub his fingertips against the underside of Roman’s jaw, maybe suck a small mark under it so that every time he bared his neck at Shea he’d show off the mark Shea put on him.

Roman pushes at him every chance he can get, strokes and touches Shea’s neck, presses his hand against his arm like he knows he’s Shea. It’s infuriating, especially when Roman pushes a phrase into Shea’s ear that he has to laboriously translate to figure out that Roman called him  _darling husband_.

Shea doesn’t feel like a darling husband, stroking off, rubbing at his foreskin and thinking about pushing into Roman’s ass  _outside of heat_. He has no idea whether Roman wants it, wants more than to touch Shea and make him come—

Shea presses his face against the tile, smells  _cinnamon_ —

And jerks himself into coming hard, moaning and pressing against the tile.

He pants heavily, shivering at the draft of cold air and turns into the spray of hot water. When he steps out, he realizes he forgot to lock the door.

Shea wraps himself in a towel, and scrubs at his face. The smell of cinnamon still lingers, and he glances sharply at the mirror before deciding, no, he doesn’t need to shave today. He steps out into their room, and the cinnamon smell is stronger, almost stinging his nose.

Did—

Did Roman hear him? Did Roman hear him strip himself raw?

Shea doesn’t know whether he wants the answer to be yes or no, doesn’t even know whether he wants to like the fact that Roman opened the door enough to make the bathroom cold and heard  _enough_. He smiles. He’s such a shit liar, fuckssakes. If he was Roman’s age, that’d be enough to make him hard again.

## 7\. no flow

Roman’s hogging the mirror, yet again, and Shea rolls his eyes, “Get a haircut, how many feathers do you need.”

Shea gets glared at for his trouble, and Roman wrestles back a strand while trying to find his part. Shea wants to hold Roman’s hands, look deep into those eyes and say,  _it’s ok, get a damn haircut_. He bends towards his side of the mirror, trying to figure out whether he can get away with skipping shaving today or Trotz’ll make jokes about Shea being Nashville’s most wanted. It’s Roman’s turn to roll his eyes and hand him his straight razor.

“How long have you been shaving, age twelve?” Roman says, “You’d think you’d be used to it by now.”

Shea sees his face flush at the edges in the mirror, and shrugs, “It’s just a pain in the ass to shave this close every day and then have my hard work done by  _noon_.”

Roman creases his face in thought, flicks his eyes up and mutters, “something, five o’clock, five o’clock shadow. Funny.”

They smirk at each other, and Roman adds, “You know, I could do it for you, that way you only have to shave once.”

Shea bites his lips, tries not to shift his weight from one foot to another. Roman watches him all the time, but having the mirror take up nearly an entire wall in this room just really reminds Shea how much  _watching_  they both do. Roman isn’t blinking, his eyes fixed on Shea’s reflection, and Shea is pretty sure Roman knows what’s going through his head at this point.

Damn it, Roman keeps pushing. And today, Shea’s going to give in, because shaving is a pain in the ass and if this goes well he can get Roman to cut his damn hair.

“Fine,” Shea sighs, “You can shave me. But—”

“I know, I better not put us down one D, yadda yadda,” Roman waves a hand, and turns away to wash his hands. Shea raises an eyebrow, and Roman shrugs, “Cuts down on blemishes and gross shit.”

He leans back, and watches Roman lather up the soap. Roman’s good with his hands, sure, steady. Yet Shea thinks his heart’s relocated to his throat, and he curls his suddenly-sweaty hands around the edges of the stone countertop. Roman whisks the soap onto Shea’s face, and after dragging the bristles of the brush across his jaw, Shea slowly bares his neck.

Roman inhales swiftly, just like Shea does, and Shea can feel his pulse jump as Roman smears more soap onto that stubborn patch of hair Shea has right under his chin. Roman turns a little pink, and looks away as he thoroughly rinses the soap brush.

“Do I need to strop this?” Roman asks, and Shea shakes his head. He’s a little more-forward looking than  _that_ , and Roman just shrugs in response. He slowly flips out the blade, and Shea swallows as he watches Roman do a quick check for any nicks. Hopefully there won’t be any nicks on his  _face_.

Roman steps closer, says, “Raise your head,” and presses the edge of it against the edge of Shea’s jawbone, “I’m not even going to bother with going against the grain, ok.”

That is more than ok with Shea; he doesn’t think he can stand having Roman be this close and this warm and this clean-smelling. Roman scrapes down Shea’s jaw, up under his chin. The blade skims his neck so quickly and so lightly Shea forgets to be nervous. Roman pauses to rinse in predictable intervals, like he’s already divided up what to do, where to touch. Roman has smooth fingertips, and they feel slightly chilly against Shea’s wet skin every time he presses to scrape at a patch on Shea’s face.

Shea doesn’t dare to move. Roman moves carefully around him, pressing close against his sides, being a lot more through than Shea would be if he was shaving himself. Roman, after an eternity, steps back and makes him rinse.

He straightens up, looks into the mirror, and runs a hand over his cheeks. They’re still rough, but he doesn’t think he’s had a shave this close since  _ever_. Roman grins, and Shea says, “Ok, you know what you’re doing. Which means you owe me one.”

“I owe you one?” Roman says, very carefully not crossing his arms.

Shea looks at Roman in the mirror, “I will get a real professional to cut your hair. Don’t trust me with sharp things.”

“My hair is fine,” Roman protests.

Shea turns around, and shit, he’s going to have to go for the nuclear option, “But it could be more than fine, you’re. Really—” he waves his hand in Roman’s direction, “You know what you look like, damn it.”

Roman leers, wide enough that Shea can see the small gap in the bottom of his teeth, and stretches his arms out emough that his shirt rides up. Shea drops his eyes down to the  _decided_  line of hair underneath Roman’s belly button, and Roman catches him at it. He shrugs, “Not whoever does your hair, though, you haven’t changed it since you got to the big show. Jeez.”

#

“Your hair.”

Both Shea and Roman look at Ginger like she just said “death” or “disaster”. Roman frowns and says, “It’s mine, what else can it be?”

Ginger frowns delicately, “How much product do you use on a daily basis?”

Roman squirms in the swivel chair, fidgets with the cape tied across his neck. Shea has mercy and says, “He uses a lot.”

They all look at each other in the mirror while Ginger prods at Roman’s hair some more, muttering to herself. Shea sits down in the swivel chair next to Roman, and smiles. The salon doesn’t quite smell like where his mom used to work, but it’s close enough; it’s a place where hair gets cut. Roman’s bitting his lip at every frown Ginger gives him.

Ginger snaps her fingers, “Just— look, get rid of all of this length. You have a very nice face with cheekbones that kill people. Use it!”

Roman frowns, “But it looks so nice fluttering in the wind…”

Shea snorts, “Can it flutter with half a bottle of shellac in it?”

Ginger smiles, and says to Roman, “It’s up to you, but you’d really. Look more  _polished_.”

Shea can see Roman’s eyes shutter, then flick up at Shea, like he’s figuring out what  _polished_  means, using it against him. Roman has that glint in his eyes, and smiles at Ginger, “Do your best.”

She cuts, then cuts, then cross-checks and cuts some more. Roman doesn’t move his eyes from Shea’s reflection, and Shea doesn’t want to know what’s he’s thinking. Ginger snips, sharp blades flashing under the harsh lights, and before any of them know it, she’s done. She brushes away the stray curls of hair and yanks of Roman’s cape.

Roman rubs the back of his neck, and she looks up at him, “Well?”

Roman’s eyes drift to Shea, and he smiles, “Polished, you said?”

Shea will not comment on that, and manages to tear his eyes away from the curve of Roman’s ears and neck enough to sign for the haircut. Ginger takes his credit card, leans in close to Shea, and whispers, “You two have it so bad, it’s cute.”

Shea clenches his jaw, but still tips 40% and says, “Thank you.”

Ginger scans the receipt and says, “No,  _thank you_. It just reminds me of when me and my wife got together, you know?”

Shea’s pretty sure he’s dying, and Roman’s reading  _TIME_  or whatever dreck they put out in hair salons, and this is really  _untenable_. Ginger gives him a sympathetic look.

He flees, with Roman speed-walking behind him, rubbing his hands over the back of his head and grinning like it’s the best sensation in the world. Roman raises his eyebrows,  _you know you want to touch_  and Shea sighs like he’s being so long-suffering, rubbing the back of Roman’s head. Roman’s hair tickles the skin between his fingers, and Shea smiles as he rubs the pad of his thumb on the skin behind Roman’s ear.

“Polished,” Shea says. Roman blushes, but doesn’t look away, and Shea gives him a quick peck on the cheek.

## 8\. escone

The air’s cold against his nose as Shea wakes up and stretches out carefully. He’s got an arm slung over Roman, and Roman’s puffing warm air against his neck. Shea doesn’t move. Why would he want to?

There’s only an inch of snow outside, but Nashville shuts down during snow “storms” and he doesn’t have to look at his cell to know that Trotz’d rather not risk his team braving roads covered by people who have no idea how to drive in snow.

Shea can stay right here, have Roman press his face against his neck. He’s warm, the sort of bone-deep warm someone only gets during summers. It’s almost like he’s lying in full sun, with Roman half on him. He goes back to sleep, with a hum of something in his blood.

He wakes up some time later— probably thirty minutes or so (you can’t play your life in two minutes intervals and not  _know_ )— smelling cinnamon and a weird copper tang that reminds Shea of freshly spilled blood. Shea can taste the salt of his  _own_  heat in his mouth, and he can’t move, not when Roman’s firm against him.

Shea realises with a start that he has a thigh pressed in between Roman’s legs, and he can feel Roman’s wetness through both of their pants. Roman stirs, with a slow rock of his hips against Shea, and Shea can feel his dick get harder the more Roman presses his wet ass against Shea’s thigh.

Roman looks up, his hair mussed like it’s been pulled on, and smiles sleepily, “You smell like salt,” and bends his head down to suckle at Shea’s neck, dragging his tongue across a tendon before he bites down. Shea arches up, everything in him  _thrumming_. Roman grinds down, and Shea squirms Roman over to press him down in the sheets. Roman smells  _maddening_ , the blood giving that cinnamon that edge, and Shea rubs his face against Roman’s neck.

Shea pulls at the collar on Roman’s t-shirt, licking and scraping the skin along Roman’s collarbones, grinds his thigh against Roman’s ass. Roman grinds back, hard, enough that he can feel how hard Roman is. Shea growls— shoves Roman’s shirt and shoves himself down, dragging his mouth in a firm line down Roman’s torso. Shea thumbs Roman’s nipples a little rougher than he should, and he can smell even  _more_  blood-cinnamon when he does it.

“Fuck—” Roman snarls, and Shea grins up at him sharply before he shoves down Roman’s thin pants, shoves his face into the crease of Roman’s groin and licks at the slick Roman’s leaving all over himself. Roman writhes, and Shea brushes his hand up against the line of Roman’s hair, presses down at the top of his abs before he leans his head back down to bite that soft patch of skin. Roman’s moaning, getting himself even slicker, and Shea knocks Roman’s legs further apart.

Roman lifts his hips up, grinds his junk against Shea’s face before Shea pins him down and licks at his hole, smears his own face with Roman’s  _scent_. Roman opens up so easily around Shea’s tongue, and it makes Shea nibble around the rim, suck on it. He hears Roman  _keen_  and does it again, wants to see Roman open and spread for  _something_. He presses his mouth at the very top, sucks at his taint, and shit, Roman  _really_  fucking loves that.

“Bitte, bitte, bitte—” It’s a chant now, and Shea just keeps licking, presses his mouth against Roman and fucks him on his tongue. Roman’s hot under his hands and face, and Shea feels like he could fly apart if Roman touched him just right. Roman keeps arching his back, and Shea keeps pushing him back down and pressing his mouth against Roman’s balls, tight against his skin and heavy. He wants more, pushes his thumb slowly into Roman and licks around it, drags his stubble against Roman’s ass—

Roman comes with a wordless shout, splatters Shea’s face with slick, and Shea slides away far enough to see Roman’s come cooling on his belly. Shea bends his head down, presses the flat of his tongue against Roman’s dick— pretty, like the rest of him— and Roman almost cries, fucking  _sobs_  with how good it is. Shea can’t even be cold, his blood is boiling and he just wants to  _take_ , fuck and come on Roman until  _he_  shivers.

Shea licks his lips, almost reaches up to wipe his face  _drier_ , and Roman knocks his hand away with a glare that sticks Shea bone-deep. Roman sucks a nasty mark on his neck, and distracts him long enough that Shea has his side pressed back against the bed with a thickening knot and Roman looking at him with such  _hunger_.

Roman touches Shea, lifts his knot up, and Shea claws at the disheveled sheets. Roman says something, Shea can’t catch it, and so he almost weeps when Roman slides Shea’s knot in between his thighs, pressing down against it—

He’s fucking Roman’s thighs, the thighs that Shea got all covered with slick and heat and come, and it’s too much. Shea presses his face against Roman’s neck, kisses him as tenderly while he’s thrusting into the tight space in between Roman’s firm legs. Roman’s clawing at his arms, and Shea realizes dimly that his dickhead is teasing at Roman’s wet hole, pressing against the tenderness—

He flips them over, slides in just the tip of his dick into Roman’s ass. It’s plush, and he can’t go in deeper, doesn’t want to take  _more_ —

Roman reaches down, jerks Shea off just the way he  _likes_  it, rough with a twist on the upstroke, and Shea claws at Roman’s arms when he comes against Roman’s cleft. Roman blinks dazedly up at him, and Shea wants Roman to come, wants to taste them both together. Shea rubs his fingers against Roman’s hole, smearing his come and Roman’s slick, pressing it in like Shea still wants to press into him, and Roman comes with nails in Shea’s shoulders. Shea doesn’t mind the sting,  _loves_  it, and licks at the purpling marks on Roman’s neck.

He slides down, licks Roman clean, and cinnamon and salt shouldn’t go like this, shouldn’t make Shea sigh like a deep itch’s been scratched, but he still press his mouth to Roman’s skin and kisses the beard burns he gave him. Roman reaches down, strokes Shea’s hair, and Shea looks up at Roman, drags his mouth away.

Roman slides a hand down Shea’s arms, touching the marks he left on it, and smiles just like Shea wanted. He presses his face against Roman’s sturdy shoulder, and feels just  _warm_.

## 9\. four-move checkmate

Theoretically Shea and Roman could send out  _all_  of their clothes to be washed, but Roman scoffs at the idea of strangers touching his underpants and Shea feels guilty about the expense. So they actually use the washing machine— albeit on  _normal_  and on  _cold-water only_ — for the smaller bits of their laundry. Neither of them are especially neat about folding, so things tend to. Pile up.

To the point where they know any pile of clothes not in the hamper are  _clean_. There’s no problem here. They can locate what they need and they both smell a bit like each other. They’re married, they’re allowed to smell a bit like each other.

The only time it becomes an issue is when Shea sees his lucky underwear on Roman, when Roman’s bending over to retrieve dishes from the dishwasher, and Shea glances down and sees a familiar band of navy gape from the very top of Roman’s jeans. Shea flicks his eyes, thinks to himself,  _that’s a nice color_ , continues putting away mugs, and then thinks  _I have underwear in that color_.

Then Shea comes around to  _Roman’s wearing my lucky underwear!_  It takes him a little longer than he’d like, but they’re still in the kitchen, and he reaches down on impulse and presses his hand to the small of Roman’s back. Roman straightens up, like he has no idea what he just did, and Shea slides his hand around where the elastic waistband  _should_  be.

“It’s not nice to borrow without asking,” Shea says. Roman’s face flashes through mortification to smugness to something Shea can’t quite read.

Roman straightens under Shea’s hand, tilts his head up just that much, “I  _was_  wondering why it was a bit loose on me.”

Shea narrows his eyes. Bullshit, but it’s  _plausible_  bullshit, and Roman’s smirking like he knows it too. Shea’s tempted to threaten Roman with wearing his underwear, but he’s not sure how far to extend this.

He is not going to win, not with Roman having the advantage of the first move  _every_  time— at least, outside of their heats. Shea steps back, thinks sternly to himself about folding laundry minus the “fluffing” bit. Roman raises his eyebrows at Shea, does a little Swiss shrug— his parents do it too, so Shea’s thinking it’s a Swiss thing— and loads the dishwasher like this never happened.

Roman’s not a sore winner, not like most of the Preds, but it  _nags_  at Shea. Shea’s not good at letting things go, even when his lucky underwear turns up clean and folded atop his dresser.

Shea balks a little at wearing Roman’s underwear; he’s no egotist but he’s been called “Horse”. If Shea’s going to make Roman squirm he’d rather do it from a place of greater comfort. Their closet is organized, most of the dry-cleaning plastic bags still on their game day suits. Roman and Shea’s ties hang on separate racks; Roman tends more towards thinner ties, while Shea likes only two, maybe three tie colors. Shea runs his hands over Roman’s ties. He can still smell Roman on them, slightly spicy, and he grins to himself.

There’s no rule against him showing up on game day, wearing his husband’s tie in a  _sedate_  plum. Roman doesn’t even notice until Shea moves his hand to tug at the knot so they can gear up. Roman’s glare is powerful, but Shea just smiles wide enough to show his dimples.

Roman doesn’t pick up the topic in the room, before or after the game, but when they’re on their way home, Roman says in German,  _I know what you did_.

Shea grins, smooths his hands over the steering wheel so they’re at two and ten, “What, exactly, Herr Josi?” Shea’s fucked up the R, he’s sure, but seeing Roman twitch like that gives him some insight as  _why_  Roman likes to tease him. It’s fun.

Roman licks his lips and says, “You wore my favorite tie. Is this how they do revenge in Canada, go to the next level?”

Shea hums, pretends that the stoplight is a fascinating shade of red before he decides on saying “yes”. The sputter Roman gives as Shea presses down his foot on green is  _priceless_. They get back to their place more or less safely, and Roman presses his hand over Shea’s after Shea sets the parking brake.

Shea looks up, and Roman licks his lips before he curls his hand around Shea’s tie— his own tie— and pulls him him in for a kiss. It’s  _soft_ , like saying,  _how do you do_ , and Shea kisses back a little softer than he wants to.

Roman pushes back and says, “Consider that the next level,” and leaves Shea alone in the pick up trying not to bash his head against the steering wheel and trying not to figure out how many days are there until June 1st.

## 10\. networking 

Roman signs up for the service because there’s only been four Swiss players who’ve played more than the time it takes to drink a cup of coffee in the NHL. It seems.  _Convenient_ ,  _understandable_  to say he wants an Alpha in the NHL, smile and laugh at the suggestion he’s looking for money.

He’s seen the payscales. They make more money than he could in the SHL, or the Superleague (maybe not, but he wouldn’t have to fly with Russian chickens), and if he can get to North America,  _stick there_ , he can play hockey for a living.

Him being an Omega just. Is a way to make getting to North America easier. Roman’s never thought about  _being_  an Omega, it is just a part of what he is, nothing big. Sure, he teases the Alphas in his class, strokes their necks and shows his own neck back, but he’s a  _teenager_. Get off his back, already.

Of course, the universe being what it is, Roman gets the Alpha-of-Alphas to sponsor him, to  _marry_  him. Roman tears through the thick packet headed  _Weber, Shea_ , looks at the only picture he has of Weber, Shea. The picture’s a roster headshot, and Weber’s glaring at the camera. Although that may be his default expression. Weber has thick brown hair, and a shadow on his chin that looks like remarkably stubborn facial hair.

Roman strokes his own bare chin. He only has to shave every other day. Weber? He’s probably lucky if he only has to shave once each day. Weber— his  _husband-to-be_ — is fucking virile, probably covered in hair underneath the Nashville Predators sweater he’s wearing. Weber keeps to himself online. Roman can’t find anything on him, no pictures that aren’t team-approved, and he has no clue what to make of it.

He keeps looking at the picture, again and again. Weber has dark eyes, almost black, and it gives Roman chills. The rest of the packet is just. Words. All of them in English, which Roman translates in his head word by word, but he doesn’t learn anything from them besides what music Weber likes to listen to, how important his family is.

Ok, Roman will concede that is a good— maybe even reassuring— thing to know, but those eyes keep making him wonder just how Weber will jump.

It. Helps and  _not_  helps that Weber’s already got a page on hockeyfights.com, that Roman can see how fervent he is on ice.

Roman is seventeen, it’s between him and his hand what he does  _afterwards_  ok.

Maybe it’s the memory of  _that_  that throws Roman off when he first meets Shea, makes him grin more than usual. His English is kinda shitty, but seeing such a big guy be so flustered just by him— that’s a fucking power trip, and Roman presses all the classic buttons. Eye contact, close talking, touching, and Roman scents him.

Shea smells good, like wood and salt. Roman’s halfway to convincing himself that this was a good idea before Shea steps back when he realizes how old Roman is. Shea looks  _guilty_ , like he’s been caught doing something he liked a little too much.

Roman flushes, both at his stupid English and at being seventeen, but Shea lets him stay. Lets him sleep next to him, lets him practice with him.

Heats are really, really annoyingly hot. Because Shea touches him and makes him come and smears himself with Roman’s come but the rest of the time Shea keeps his hands to himself. The smell of Shea when he’s in his own heat makes Roman want to touch and place his mouth along that tense cord in Shea’s neck, but he has to keep watching Shea touch himself and looking at Roman.

Roman can’t stand this, can’t stand Shea being so tense and brittle with himself and with him.

That’s the reason he gives for pushing Shea, for touching him, for wearing his dumb clothes and watching his eyes get dark as he takes Roman in. Shea’s stupidly hot, and Roman wants to make Shea think of him the same way he thinks of Shea.

He may be in over his head, but the way Shea licks his lips when Roman presses against his side is almost worth it.

## 11\. saftig

The mountains scrape against the warm blue sky, and Roman gives a little sigh next to Shea. Shea turns, and Roman hefts his bag further up on his shoulder, “Nothing like Switzerland.”

Shea shrugs, “I’ve never been there, it must be so exhausting having to live in such postcard-perfect landscapes.”

Roman rolls his eyes at him and walks a little further down into the valley. Shea follows, glancing down at Roman’s ass every now and then. He’s allowed to look now. Despite that they’ve been married for almost, shit, eight months. Spending June back in BC is always bittersweet, but it’s better when he’s got Roman.

Roman glances at the scribbled set of directions, and says, “Is this supposed to be an A or a D?”

Shea leans over Roman’s shoulder, cursing the fact that his glasses are in a case buried at the very bottom of his pack, and says, “Has to be an A, otherwise I just misspelled the word.”

“Why does English have dumb spelling rules,” Roman says, for what has to be the millionth time, but he’s smiling.

They manage to find their boathouse, and Shea smirks as he steps in. It’s on the small side— which,  _duh_ , it’s on water— and the floor sways a little under their weight before it rights itself.

Roman arches his eyebrow and says, “Hope you don’t get seasick.”

“Said the one from the landlocked country,” Shea flings back, opening up a window. The screen’s in, thank fuck. Bugs get a bit large up here, and having to kill bugs on their very belated honeymoon would spoil the mood. It’s warm, 21 degrees, but he’s not going to jump into the water if he doesn’t have to.

Roman stretches out on the bed— the nicest thing in the houseboat, with high-thread count sheets and a duvet that looks like a flock of geese made it— and Shea’s too busy looking at the splay of his legs to catch what Roman says besides, “should take you to Bern, there’s enough water for all of us.”

Shea agrees, in principle, but it was a long trip from Nashville to Sicamous and he just kicks his shoes off and lies down next to Roman. Roman’s snoring already, and he drifts off to the familiar buzz.

Roman wakes up Shea by straddling him, and Shea’s eyes widen when he takes in, that yes, Roman is naked. Shea laughs, and Roman just slides his hands up under Shea’s shirt. Shea covers Roman’s hands through his shirt, the thin material not even taking away from how good it feels to  _touch_  Roman.

Shea strokes Roman’s knuckles, and Roman licks his lips, says in Swiss German, slowly for Shea’s benefit, “June first was Friday.”

The words for “I know, I can count,” lie a bit thick and clumsy on Shea’s tongue, but he gets them out. Roman laughs, and rubs his fingertips against the hair around Shea’s nipples.

Roman grinds down carefully against the front of Shea’s shorts, continues,  _So what are you waiting for?_  Shea licks his lips again, jesusfuck. Roman’s not giving Shea any quarter, but it’s been a while, and Shea thinks Roman likes seeing him suffer a little.

Shea says, slowly and carefully, after conjugating a little in his head,  _I’m waiting for you to say yes._

Roman looks down at his naked body, grinds down against Shea’s dick— which is almost just like he’s imagined— and says,  _This isn’t enough?_

Shea looks up at the wooden ceiling, laughs, “I like rules, Roman.” Roman’s eyes flicker hotly, and the grin Shea gets is enough to make him buck his hips against Roman’s weight, but Roman still has his hands pressed against Shea’s chest.

“Ok, boy scout— or whatever they have in Canada— I don’t know why I have to tell you this but maybe you just don’t like hints,” Roman pauses, and pushes Shea’s shirt up to his armpits, “This is a  _yes_ , just to make it super clear, because having your hot young  _naked_  husband grind against your dick isn’t clear enough. Christ.”

Shea reaches up and strokes Roman’s neck, pressing in a finger at the edge of his jaw, “I put the b in subtle, I guess—”

Roman groans, mutters, “Fuck you,” and Shea looks down at Roman’s hard cock, looks back up with a leer.

“I’d be ok with that,” and Shea can practically hear Roman’s mental gears  _grind_  at the thought of fucking Shea’s ass, adds, “We’re married, can’t I have sex with my Omega however you give it to me?”

The moan Roman does makes Shea reach down and stroke the button of his own shorts, and Roman knocks his fingers away from the fly to undo it himself. Shea can’t hold the noise that he makes when Roman strokes him just like he’s been  _taking notes_.

Roman slides off him to yank his shorts off, and they thump easily against the wall behind Roman. Roman flicks his eyes up at Shea’s shirt, and Shea takes it off. It follows the trajectory of the shorts, and he turns on his side. He touches Roman, thumbs the bend of his elbow, because he  _can_ , and Roman slides closer, says, “Just fuck me.”

Shea kisses Roman lightly, tries to make Roman  _slow down_ , but Roman kisses back, taking what he wants, his teeth dragging against Shea’s lip  _sweetly_. Roman slides his hands through Shea’s hair, presses his nails down a little, and Shea presses Roman back against the sheets.

“I’ll fuck you, just maybe I just want to touch you,” Shea manages, in between grinding against Roman’s trim abs, biting those pink lips swollen. Roman scoffs, his eyes green in the afternoon sunlight, and calls him something that Shea thinks translates to  _sap_. Shea doesn’t deny it, just reaches down and rubs his hand down the line of hair towards Roman’s cock, sucks bites into that neck like he’s been thinking about for  _months_.

Roman’s just as loud here as he is during heats, arches against Shea’s hand and Shea slides his other hand up his thick thigh, presses upwards. Roman scrapes his nails down the back of Shea’s neck, kisses him before Shea slides down Roman and sucks him carefully.

Shea doesn’t have to hold down Roman; Roman’s doing a stellar job of keeping himself from choking Shea, but Shea can feel him  _vibrate_  with the need to get more. Shea licks, lets the tip of Roman’s cock slide from his lips just to make Roman curse. Shea does it again, and again, the salt thin on his tongue. Shea’s mouth feels so  _plush_ , just doing these tiny sucks but Roman’s so hot thrashing like this under his hands.

Roman’s breathing hard, and Shea slides his thumb against Roman’s cleft. Roman’s so slick his thumb slides all over the skin there, and Shea grins, “Would it be too much if I rimmed you?”

_Yes_ , Roman says firmly, and Shea hums, files that away for another time— because there  _will_  be another time. He gets on his knees, and Roman props himself on his elbows. Roman’s various shades of pink and tan, but his dick twitches when Shea looks at it, and Roman’s so  _bold_ , looking at Shea like there’s nothing to be nervous about.

Roman nudges Shea with his knee, says, “Going to stick it in me?”

_So romantic, Herr Josi_ , Shea retorts, but he does hitch Roman closer, edges his dick against the rim of Roman’s ass. Roman hums, and just slides back against Shea’s dick. It amazes Shea how  _easy_  he slides in, and Roman grinds against him.

“Thanks for that dildo,” Roman says, rocks up experimentally, “It was,” strokes down, “Very good practice,” and Shea grips at Roman’s hips convulsively, burning with embarrassment and possessiveness. Shea would bend down and kiss Roman, try to keep those lips from making Shea even crazier, but Roman’s urging him on with those grinds.

Shea fucks Roman, carefully at first, making small, shallow strokes, and Roman grits his teeth, says something in German about getting pounded. Roman even claws at Shea’s arms to underline whatever point’s he’s making, and Shea thrusts hard, pushing them up the bed. Roman moans, presses his fingers in again, and it sets off Shea, makes him hold Roman’s legs up as he fucks him hard, screw each other—

Roman comes, squeezing around Shea unbearably tight, and Shea hisses as he comes in Roman—

Shea’s wet, with Roman’s slick and their come, and Roman pulls Shea down for a brushed kiss. Shea rubs his face against Roman’s neck, and says, “Good enough?”

Roman grins, “There’s always room for improvement,” squirms, and adds after a dirty smile, “knotting.”

Shea laughs, “Really? I don’t knot outside of heat—”

“So sure,” Roman says, playing with the ends of Shea’s hair, “But I’ll like to make sure of that  _myself_.”

Roman looks insanely smug, and it’s an unfortunately good look on him. Shea’s more than happy to help Roman make sure.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr!](http://www.hastybooks.tumblr.com)


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